


Watson's Tribulation

by malevolent_muse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come as Lube, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Ejaculation, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture Porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malevolent_muse/pseuds/malevolent_muse
Summary: John Watson is taken captive and subjected to an unexpected tribulation. Physical and mental anguish abound as he fights against the onslaught of the unimaginable.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51
Collections: A Thousand Trials and Tribulations





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> A friend once postulate what would happen if I took my most popular story and changed the fandom... This is the result.

The doctor regained consciousness like an old car sputtering to life on a cold day. Considering the cold hard floor he lay upon, it was an appropriate metaphor. Surrounded by darkness, John Watson hadn’t a clue where he was or how he had got there.

Instead, he tried to move. An intense ache thrummed through his core and down his extremities, taking his breath away. After giving himself a moment or two, he made another attempt, this time being careful to slowly adjust his position. As he shifted his leg, he heard the clink of metal upon metal and felt a cold cuff around his ankle. Blindly feeling for the restraint, he realized it was an old-fashioned manacle, heavy and unwieldy.

It was then that fear finally crept up and grasped hold of him.

As a former member of the Royal Army Medical Corps and a companion/colleague to the infamous Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, he had his fair share of run-ins with all sorts of hardened criminals and combatants. Consequently, he had become accustomed to dealing with high-risk situations. Fear was just part of his life, and he knew how to deal with it in a manner that kept him fairly level-headed. In fact, it was safe to say that he had an easier time staying calm when the stakes were high. However, in prior situations, he’d at least had some understanding of the circumstances.

This was different. Not only did he not know where he was or how he had got there, but also he didn’t know who was responsible for this. From the pain and subsequent nausea coursing through his body, he surmised he had been drugged. As he yanked at the chain moored to the floor, it was clear it (whatever ‘it’ was) had sapped most of his strength as well.

“ _What had happened?_ ” He silently asked himself. “ _Think, John, think_.”

Grumbling to himself that finding himself chained up was simply just another part of the shite he’d been put through of late. Sure, he and Sherlock had dealt with a number of unsavory characters but if there was any real threat, Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, would’ve warned them. There was really only one person in particular that Watson considered a serious threat:

Jim Moriarty.

“ _Bollocks,”_ he thought to himself as he pulled unsuccessfully at the chain’s mooring. _“If Moriarty wanted me dead, I would be already. He must have something planned for me. And whatever that something is, I don’t want to be around for when he gets back_.”

Whatever was in his system was hampering his ability to think clearly. He needed something, some clue, to give him some context of the situation.

The darkness that surrounded him was the first clue, a windowless room. The cold hard floor was the next, a basement.

“ _So no point in yelling or screaming, no one will hear me.”_

The solid cuff around his ankle attached to a short chain bolted to the floor was a strong indication that that whoever had him did not intend on him going anywhere. And yet, his hands were not bound. So apparently, his captor wasn’t concerned that he would possibly be able to undo the restraint. But at least, with his hands free, he could defend himself to some extent, if it came down to that.

Feeling around his person, John immediately noticed his jumper was gone but he still wore his button-down. His jean pockets were empty and his belt and boots were missing. The shoes and the belt could’ve made potential weapons, so he wasn’t surprised they were taken from him. So no chance of fighting back with those items, he’d have to make do with just his fists.

_“But is that the best course of action? To go on the offensive right away?”_

Slowly pushing himself to a sitting position, John shivered as the pain running through him left him light headed and severely fatigued. He sat and contemplated possible scenarios. Acting out in an aggressive manner right away could deprive him of potential means of escape. He was chained to the floor and getting out of this would be a challenge.

_“My best chance of getting out of this restraint is to convince Moriarty, or whoever it is, that it isn’t necessary to keep me locked up.”_

Eventually, John decided his best course of action would be to try and cooperate as much as he could and align himself with the machiavellian criminal mastermind. This method would open up more opportunities for escape and he would be able to get the hell out of this basement alive and intact.

Cradling his head between his knees, he contemplated what was in store for him, if he was unsuccessful. Based on past experiences, torture was a likely scenario. Broken bones, missing appendages, and other nefarious means of torment swirled in his mind. The longer he spent thinking, the harder it was to remain calm. His stomach churned. Being in such physical discomfort wasn't helping his concentration. Each passing minute did nothing to ease his pain. It left him feeling exhausted both mentally and physically, to say nothing of his ability to perceive the passage of time.

_“How long have I been down here?”_

The sounds of a heavy lock being opened startled John from the darkness that filled his mind. He struggled to his feet, leveraging the wall behind him for balance, still feeling the effects of the drug. The grating sound of a heavy door being pulled open was accompanied by the sudden brightness of lights being turned on. The doctor was forced to cover his eyes for a moment as they adjusted to the light. Creaking footsteps coming down the stairs were briefly preceded by the sound of the door above shutting and being locked.

Quickly glancing around at the barren basement, John observed more clearly that the floor was poured concrete and the walls were made of cinderblocks. A metal table, a hose, and a drain were the only objects he noticed before his attention was affixed to the person coming down the stairs. A man had descended into the basement and John breathed a sigh of relief.

The tall man, his dark tousled curls were a stark contrast to the pale skin of his narrow face. Dressed in his typical combination of an overcoat paired with a scarf, Sherlock Holmes was a sight for sore eyes.

That was until John realized that a second man had come down the stairs behind the detective. It was then that he realized things were about to take a turn for the worse. At least he had been correct in surmising who was culpable for his abduction.

James Moriarty, the fucking weasel-faced malefactor, was dressed in his usual extravagant trappings. Wearing a suit, coupled with a purple shirt and striped tie, the man stepped off of the last stair and gave John a particularly menacing grin.

As the pair approached him, the doctor expressed his apprehension.

“Sherlock, what’s going on? Why am I here? Where are we?”

Sherlock held a cup in his hand and extended it towards his colleague. John gratefully accepted it. Once the cool crisp water touched his parched lips, he eagerly drained the cup’s contents.

The sound of metal jangling drew John’s attention to Moriarty, who had taken a set of keys from his pocket. Kneeling down, Moriarty unlatched the locking mechanism of the manacle around his ankle. Sherlock, meanwhile, just stood there silently eyeing the doctor, as if he was waiting to see what John’s first reaction would be.

 _“Why aren’t they talking?”_ he wondered.

As Moriarty stood back up, John stated in a quiet and non-confrontational tone, “For the love of God, tell me what is going on.”

He was answered by Sherlock quickly grabbing him by his hair and smashing his head against the wall behind him with brute force. Crumpling to the floor, the jarring pain in his head left him dizzy. He put his hands up defensively. The pair moved in a coordinated fashion as they picked him up, on either side, drug him over to the metal table, and bent him over it face down; all the time, never saying a word.

Trying to push up off the table but finding himself even further weakened by the blow, John came face to face with his friend. As the detective came around the other side of the table, Sherlock grabbed his wrists and held them down against the cold metal surface.

“Sherlock,” John begged, “think about what you are doing. I am your friend, probably the only one you’ve got. Whatever leverage he has, it’s not —“

The swishing sound of a blade being sprung from its handle interrupted John’s train of thought and he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Seeing Moriarty and the large pocket knife he held, he began to wonder which extremity he was about to lose.

The blade was pressed against his skin and John squeezed his eyes shut as he attempted to preemptively steady himself against imminent injury. However, instead of cutting flesh, Moriarty began to cut his clothes. His shirt was gone in a matter of seconds, shortly followed by his trousers and boxers. John’s legs began to buckle as Moriarty slid his hands down sensuously and grasped each ankle and pulled off his socks.

“You can’t be serious,” John gasped as he realized that it might not be mere physical torment this man wanted from him but his body. A possibility that had not entered the doctor’s mind previously because very rarely, if ever, did straight men like himself get raped.

 _“Raped!_ ” The thought echoed in his mind, _“I’m going to get raped!”_

John became astutely aware of Moriarty’s lingering touch behind him and the unexpected hungry look in Sherlock’s eyes in front of him. Any thought of cooperation he’d held before completely disappeared. Despite the physical limitations imposed by whatever drug he’d been given, he began to struggle in earnest. 

However, Sherlock was even stronger than he looked and his grip upon his wrists remained firm. Additionally, it was very apparent that whatever they’d drugged him with had left him greatly weakened.

Trying to kick at the man behind him he found every movement sapped him of more strength. John’s heart hammered as he heard the sound of a zipper being undone. Moriarty had unfastened his trousers and had pulled out his adequately large member. He then licked his hand to lubricate it before rubbing himself to erection.

“Wait! No," John stuttered, "no, you can't. I'm not... I've never... You can't. No! Don’t!”

His pleas fell on deaf ears as Sherlock held his wrists firm and Moriarty kicked his legs apart. Trying to get a footing and move away from the man approaching from behind, his damp toes, wet from the sweat of his fear, slipped on the smooth concrete.

But Moriarty was unyielding as he grabbed his hips and pried apart his ass cheeks with his thumbs. Feeling the head of the man’s cock against his sensitive hole, John cried out, “PLEASE DON’T!”

This desperate cry for mercy did not sway Moriarty from his actions. Instead, he pushed the head of his cock through the clenched ring of muscle.

John screamed!

What physical discomfort he had felt before vanished in the wake of this new stabbing pain that surged in his rectum. John had known the word ‘violated’ before but now he truly understood its full meaning. Trying to squirm away was to no avail as the men had too strong of a hold. Moriarty’s cock made its way deeper and deeper into him before pulling back out again.

His rapist had started slow but had picked up the pace and he rammed his cock in over and over, again and again. With each push, the breath was driven from John’s lungs and he gasped for air as Moriarty partially pulled out.

His cries halted by his ragged breathing, John pleaded, “No…. Stop… Please… stop.”

Nothing he said made any difference and Moriarty ignored the man beneath him, continuing the assault.

Pain and humiliation were all John felt at first but then he felt warmth running down his bare legs and smelled blood. Fresh shame washed over him knowing he had torn like a virgin bride on her wedding night. Worse, the slickness from his bleeding just made it easier for Moriarty to pick up the pace.

 _“This can’t be happening,_ ” the thought flashed John’s mind. “ _It can’t be real.”_

But real it was.

Looking first at the hands still holding his wrists down on the table, John slid his gaze upward and locked onto Sherlock’s dark eyes. Despite feeling utterly betrayed by the man, he wanted to beg the detective in front of him to make Moriarty stop. However, the way Sherlock was looking at him made his blood run cold. Clearly and sickeningly, the man found the sight before him very arousing.

From the periphery of his vision, John saw a hand reach over for Sherlock. Glancing up, he distinguished a soft smile on Moriarty’s lips as he looked at his accomplice lovingly. ‘Soft' and ‘lovingly’ were two terms vehemently at odds with the vicious manner in which Moriarty was pounding into him.

Gagging at the mere idea of the men being in some sort of twisted relationship, John watched Moriarty tenderly brush Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead, gently running his hand through the black locks, and then coming to rest at the back of Sherlock’s head.

Affectionately, Moriarty pulled his detective towards himself and the two men came together, right above the doctor’s bowed form, lips brushing together in a most tender fashion. For a few moments, Moriarty’s rhythm faltered, making each thrust even more agonizing while the rapist was otherwise engaged.

John could hear the sounds of their mismatched, heavy breathing coupled with the wet sounds of tongues and the occasional click of teeth coming together. He wanted to fight more but his body wouldn’t obey him. He felt so heavy, immobile. Putting his face down on the table in sheer and utter defeat, he closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his face and onto the metal surface beneath him.

He was done. What point was there in resisting anymore?

Wanting to retreat, to go somewhere else, even if it was just in his head, he closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out the situation. However, this action did nothing but to heighten the physical sensations and kept him in the present. The doctor could not avoid the pain of Moriarty hammering his ass, the feeling the table’s edge digging into his hips, the silken texture of the man’s suit trousers against his bare bottom, or the rough hands firmly gripping his smooth skin. Perspiration fell on him from above but oddly, the worst sensation was that of Moriarty’s balls slapping into the sensitive skin of his perineum over and over again.

For what felt like an eternity, Moriarty fucked John, using the doctor’s tight virgin asshole for his own pleasure. Enjoying the pain and suffering he inflicted he raped John like a fucking whore. Finally, Moriarty slowed his pace as he bucked his hips, unleashing and painting their captive’s insides with cum.

A feeling of relief rushed though John when he realized Moriarty finished. Just as this thought entered his mind, the two men released their grip on him and he slumped to the ground.

It was only then that John realized his cock was hard. Apparently, the sensation of rubbing up on the table and the pressure on his prostate had given him an erection. Shame replaced the previous moment’s relief and he tried to cover himself up with his hands. Walking around the table, Sherlock stood over him. As John looked up he saw that same arousal from before and realized the pair was not done with him yet. On his hands and knees, the defiled doctor tried crawling away, only to find Sherlock already had a hold on him.

“Sherlock! Listen to me. You don’t have to do this!”

If the detective heard his doctor’s plea, he made no sign of it.

Picking up what remained of John’s shirt, Moriarty wiped the blood and cum off his dick before tucking himself back into his trousers. He then helped Sherlock put their weakened prey back on the table, this time on his back. John tried to roll onto his side, grasping at the edge of the table with his fingers but Sherlock was already between his legs and holding them pushed back towards his chest and apart. Taking the same torn piece of fabric he had used to wipe his dick, Moriarty shoved this into John’s mouth.

At the taste of blood, cum, and other less pleasant traces on the cloth, John retched and bile rose up in his throat. He had to get the makeshift gag out of his mouth but try as he might to push off his attackers, he simply did not have the physical strength and his efforts were to no avail.

Climbing onto the table behind John’s head, Moriarty pulled up his arms up and knelt on them to secure them in place. Then he reached forward and grabbed John’s legs, effectively pinning him to the table, leaving Sherlock free shed his coat and scarf and to take out his dick.

“ _No, not Sherlock_!” he thought, terrified.

This time John couldn’t scream as he was raped. Sherlock, being a larger than Moriarty, had a bigger dick. Consequently it hurt more when the detective violated the doctor. With his anal muscles shot from him trying to clamp down and prevent the first attack, this time around was even more excruciating.

But instead of just using the doctor like his accomplice before him, after establishing a rhythm, Sherlock reached forward and wrapped his sweaty palm around John’s dick. The sensations were too much and John’s body involuntarily responded to the touch.

A muffled moan escaped the gag as John tried to resist the surges of self-loathing pleasure as his friend and colleague wanked him off while assaulting his abused hole. To make things worse, sliding his dick in and out of him, Sherlock was deliberately hitting that one spot inside at just the right angle and with just the right amount of pressure. This combined with the hand around his cock left John shuddering with both pleasure and revulsion.

 _“No!_ ” John was in disbelief that his own body could betray him in such a way. “ _Not this. Please, not this_.”

The man raping him neither noticed or cared for his perspective on the matter as Sherlock continued his assault. Soon John’s balls began to tighten as he felt the pressure within them start to build.

“ _Hold on,_ ” he told himself, trying to steady his resolve. “ _Don’t let him do this to you. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t cum. Don’t let them take this from you too.”_

But they did.

Soon the sensations overpowered him. It had been a while since he’d had a release and, clearly backed up, his cock spewed ropes of semen onto his belly and chest. Any feelings of pleasure immediately evaporated as he came crashing down from his climax back into the moment.

Sherlock was still inside of him, still fucking and tearing up his ass.As his thrusts became irregular, John hoped his friend turned rapist would reach orgasm soon. Holding onto the back of his thighs, Sherlock shivered as he filled John with cum.

Once Sherlock was done, he let go and removed his still semi-hard cock from the doctor’s bleeding anus. Moriarty immediately pulled John off of the table and let him fall to the floor. Barely getting an arm out in time to keep his face hitting the concrete, their victim just laid there, barely seeming to even have the strength to spit out the soiled rag that had been stuffed in his mouth.

Totally shocked at the events that had just transpired, John grappled with his emotions. He didn’t know what to do. All the fight had been fucked out of him. He was left violated, humiliated, desecrated, ashamed, dirty, and broken.

 _“They raped me,”_ repeated in his mind. _“They took turns raping me and I… I’ve just been raped! Twice!”_

Feeling completely drained John lamented the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop the attack. What’s more, he was completely mortified that not only had he got an erection but he had ejaculated at the hand of a man he considered his friend. This knowledge was pure anguish and was easily one of the worst things he had ever felt in his entire life.

His humiliation was made utterly complete when Sherlock and Moriarty walked back over and dragged him over to the basement’s floor drain and started to hose him off; for what purpose, he did not know. But no amount of water could wash away the shame that had taken hold. The cold water hit him hard in the face, taking his breath away. Then the stream of water moved down his body striking the bruised and broken skin.

As the water worked its way towards his more delicate regions, John bit his lip to prevent himself from crying out at the sharp pain that emanated from his damaged ass. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth as he watched the rivulets of red-tinged water slowly make their way over the bare concrete and disappear down the drain. Though he knew his body would slowly heal the torn tissues inside, something else had been rent during his assault, something that might never mend.

Limp as a rag doll, the doctor hung in the men’s grasp as they hauled him back over to the spot on the ground where the shackles lay bolted to the floor and once again fastened the cuff to his ankle.

Behind closed lids, anxiously, John listened to the sound of their steps retreating as they ascended the stairs and slammed the door shut and locked. A second later the lights were turned off and he was plunged into total darkness once again. Blinking his teary eyes back open, he was glad he couldn’t see in the dark. He had no desire to look at the table across the room, a monument to his rape.

Shivering uncontrollably, he curled up naked in the dark. Then the tears came again. Slowly his tears turned into sobs of grief that racked his whole body. His mind whirled with unanswerable questions and implications.

_“How could this have happened? Sherlock… How could he betray me like this? That fucking Moriarty took my freedom and my body without even saying a word and some how dragged my friend down to his level. They made me… they made me their plaything.”_

He tried to brush these words away, attempting to deny what had just happened. No sooner had he pushed this aside than an even more horrific realization invaded his mind: that as long as they had him, what he’d just endured could easily happen again.

_“If they can keep me weak like this, they’ll be able to do whatever they please until someone else can stop them.”_

This last thought left him shuddering in revulsion.

_“Does anyone know that I’m missing? Will they be able to find me here? How long will it take them? What will people say if they find out that I let my best friend and his worse enemy raped me? Sure I struggled and resisted the best I could but I failed. What good is a man who can’t keep himself safe? I don’t feel like a man. I just feel pathetic.Fuck… I am pathetic.”_

A new wave of tears washed over John as he lay in his dark despair. However, as he ran out of tears, his misery was replaced with another feeling: outrage. So he’d been beaten this time, that was clear, he told himself, and maybe he was pathetic. But he was not completely broken.

At least not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked what you read or you have any feedback, please leave me a comment. Perhaps, you might have a suggestion for the next fandom I apply this treatment to...
> 
> Additionally, if you would be interested in seeing this scenario play out, then you can swing over to the work that inspired this one, [Unexpected Tribulations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712039), and see how everything unfolds. It’s not Sherlock related but prior knowledge of the fandom isn’t necessary. I promise if you like this, you won’t be disappointed.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

Taking Sherlock’s hand, Moriarty pulled his lover up the steps behind him. Once at the top of the steps, he closed the heavy metal door behind them, locking it with both a key and a passcode on a number pad. Placing his body between Sherlock and the door, he made sure the other man did not see the digits he had entered.

The door now secure, Jim turned and brushed the side of his hand down the detective’s cheek before stretching up on his toes to give him a kiss.

Despite still feeling a rush from what they had just done, his lips were gentle as they brushed Sherlock’s and Jim revelled in delight that he could do that. Even having kissed the detective a hundred times by now, Moriarty could not get over the shivers that reverberated up and down his spine each time he did it. It was so delightfully wicked.

“You did good,” Jim said, breaking off the kiss.

“I didn’t say anything,” Holmes remarked. “Just like you told me.”

“And for that, you will be rewarded,” Moriarty replied, as he sauntered away down the corridor.

“How did he know my name?”

The detective’s question stopped Moriarty in his tracks.

“Jim,” Sherlock pushed, “he said he was my friend. Why would he say that?”

“Come,” Moriarty gestured for his lover to come closer, “I promised you a reward, didn’t I?”

Moriarty turned, making his way down the narrow hallway, listening to Holmes following as the floorboards creaked beneath the tall man’s steps.Turning sharply on his heal, Jim pushed open the door to the small bedroom.

The house (well, cottage really) they were staying in was small but it was secluded and secure, the two most important features he needed for his plans to be successful. Besides, there was nothing inherently unpleasant about it being ‘cosy’ instead of spacious.

Sidling up to the bedside table, Moriarty pulled open the drawer. Wood scraped against wood and the faint aroma of the beech timber wafted up to his nose as he reached inside and pulled out a small black case.

“Sit,” Jim told his detective, “roll up your sleeve.”

Tossing his coat and scarf onto the bed, Sherlock did just that.

Pulling the syringe and vial out of the case, Moriarty prepared the hypodermic needle, filling it with the liquid cocaine compound.

“A seven percent solution,” Jim mentioned as he sat down on the bed and putting a hand under Holmes’ elbow, “just the way you like it.”

Placing a thumb in the crook of Sherlock’s arm, Moriarty easily found a vein despite the myriad of recent track marks.

“Thank you,” Holmes sighed as the drug was injected.

“My pleasure,” Moriarty replied as he studied his companion carefully, watching as the minute pulsing of the blood vessels along Sherlock’s neck increased in pace and the detective’s pupils dilated.

For a few minutes, Jim waited. He waited for his lover to be laid bare before him in both a metaphorical and literal sense. Sherlock reclined back on the thin duvet covering and Moriarty quickly straddled him, pulling at the detective’s clothes.

Keeping an eye on Sherlock’s breathing, Moriarty traced the long lines of the man’s bare torso with his finger, lips, and tongue. After finding that a mixture of sex and drugs was all that was necessary to gain access to nemesis’s mind palace, Jim hadn’t been able to show much restraint.

Admittedly, he wasn’t aware of what was happening the first time he had come upon Sherlock using drugs to enhance and expand his cognitive abilities. Instead, he had just seen an opportunity to get the upper hand. He had thought it funny, then, in the midst of squalor and Sherlock nearly passed out on a urine-stained mattress, to molest the practically virginal detective.

To say it had been arousing would have been an understatement.

Pair the sexual contact and the drug use together, and it was like Sherlock had left the proverbial door to his mind palace unlocked. Jim had simply slipped in and started destroying everything in sight. What remained of Holmes’ psyche, when he was through, was easily manipulated.

“Sherlock,” Moriarty huffed, his hot breath against the detective’s neck echoing back at him, “the man in the basement is not your friend. He was never your friend. You don’t even know him.”

“… don’t even know him,” Holmes whispered, reiterating what he was being told.

“He’s just a thing to be used. Something we can share.”

“… share.”

“He’s no one.”

“… no one.”

Moriarty kissed Sherlock on the lips then, sealing the information he had planted in place; ever so pleased that the experiment he had won had been a success. If Holmes was capable of raping his beloved Watson, then there was no limit to how far he could push the consulting detective.

Drawing himself back up to a sitting position, Jim helped Sherlock turn over on his stomach. Kissing alone was probably enough to keep his lover in line but he wasn’t going to risk it. Reaching for the bedside table drawer once more, Moriarty pulled out a bottle of lube with one hand while unzipping his trousers with the other.

Not seeing a point in taking their clothes off completely (they were already soiled from fucking the doctor in the basement), Jim pulled out his cock and quickly rubbed his hardening cock to a full erection. Jerking down Sherlock’s trousers so the hem rested just below the curve of the detective’s shapely arse, Moriarty lubed a couple of fingers first before roughly pushing them past the tight ring of muscle.

It’s not as though he cared if Sherlock was warmed up or not, Moriarty just wanted to make sure there was enough lube to ensure himself a pleasant experience. Once that was accomplished, Jim hastily lined his cock up and thrust himself inside Holmes’ ass.

Quickly finding a rhythm, he found himself lost in the sensations of tight heat around his penis. The gorgeous gasps and moans coming from Sherlock’s mouth were only amplifying Jim’s pleasure.

“Oh, fuck,” Moriarty exclaimed softly, orgasming sooner than he had expected and unloading his cum into the detective.

Hissing softly, he pulled his softening and over-sensitive member out and wiped himself off using Sherlock’s discarded scarf. Then, rolling off to the side, Jim snuggled next to his detective on the bed. Holmes was still panting and his eyes were wide open, yet completely unfocused.

“Stay with me,” Jim said, tracing his finger along Sherlock’s chin so that the detective would focus on him. “I am all that matters. No one else, only me.”

“… only you.”

***

Sitting at his desk, Mycroft Holmes listened to the tap-tap-tapping of his assistant’s high heels as she made her way down the corridor to his rather austere office. By the sounds of it, she was wearing a pair of women’s shoes size six with a 65-millimetre heel. This particular pair was too tight as her footfalls were slower and her stride shortened. The fact that she was still wearing them meant that they had been expensive.

With a sigh, Mycroft chided himself for letting his mind wander. As much as he’d like to focus more trivial matters, he had a job to do.

A knock sounded from the opposite side of the door.

“Enter,” Mycroft called.

Anthea came into the room, her phone in her hands as she read through the various messages she was receiving.

“Mr Holmes, sir,” she greeted him.

“What news do you have for me?” Mycroft asked. “Has anyone seen my brother?”

“No,” Anthea replied. “Our agents are still keeping an eye out for him but you know how your brother can be.”

“I do. However, it has only been a fortnight and, as irresponsible as Sherlock is, he is bound to turn up sooner rather than later. Still, I would rest easier knowing he was safe and relatively sound at home in his flat.”

“Err,” Anthea hesitated before saying, “it’s just that his flat-mate, Doctor Watson…”

“Yes,” Mycroft prodded, “go on.”

“John Watson went missing last night.”

Groaning, Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefingers.

“Sir?” Anthea questioned.

“You may leave,” he all but barked.

“Of course,” she said with a nod of her head before turning to leave. Exiting the room, the assistant closed the door.

“ _Of all the —_ “ he fumed inwardly, not even capable of fully forming a coherent thought.

Taking more than a few deep breathes to calm himself, he steadied his resolve to disentangle this mystery. He was, after all, the more intelligent of the Holmes siblings and he had the entire resources of the British government at his disposal.

Drumming his fingers on his desk, a worried yet determined Mycroft pondered aloud, “Where are you, brother mine?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally post a "bonus" chapter for these Tribulation one-shots but I had a particular reader who was very concerned why Sherlock had betrayed John. Hopefully this illuminated why Sherlock did what he did. Not to mention, I've written the Mycroft scene in order to set up the method of both Sherlock's and John's rescue. I leave it to my readers to infer how that comes to fruition.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

It was dark, as it so often was. Too dark to even see his fingers in front of his face, John remained completely immobile on the floor of the dank cellar. He’d been down here for what seemed like ages but, in all likelihood, it hadn’t been more than a fortnight. With nothing to do, the former soldier did his best not to contemplate the events that had occurred within the four walls that now imprisoned him.

He didn’t want to think about what Moriarty and the man he had once considered to be his friend had done to him. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” a voice hissed inside his head. “ _Say his name. His name is Sherlock.”_

Groaning, John turned on his side and ignored the inner demon who was taunting him. Instantly regretting his actions, he gritted his teeth as hunger pains tore through his abdomen. He should’ve known better than to move. 

“ _Remind me, Doctor, when did they last feed you_?” the voice sneered. “ _Maybe if you don’t resist, Sherlock will give you more than his cock to put in your mouth.”_

Grimacing, he tried once more to push the dreary train of thought out of his mind. John was malnourished, this was true, but Moriarty was having too much fun to let the doctor go without food for too long. Consequently, John wasn’t going to die of starvation anytime soon.

“I’ll die of sepsis long before that,” John muttered to himself.

Neither Sherlock nor Moriarty were gentle with him while they … John’s trail of thought paused. He hated admitting what they were doing to him, but there was no denying it. They were raping him.

Their brutality was consistent, and it wouldn’t be long until they did more damage than could be withstood in a situation such as this. A tear in his rectal cavity walls would be sufficient to introduce bacteria into his bloodstream. Once the infection took hold, he’d go into shock and then he would die.

“God help me,” John all but prayed. He was actually looking forward to death.

A sudden noise echoed down from the ceiling above, but John was quick to dismiss it. It was probably nothing more than a chair toppling over or a book sliding off of a pile and falling to the floor. Sounds from above were easy to disregard as it happened often enough, though with varying frequency. 

“ _This isn’t… normal_ ,” John realized as the noises became louder and more frequent.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as the doctor pushed himself to a sitting position and pressed himself against the wall. Wishing he could somehow camouflage himself against the grey concrete, he knew that when the lights were turned on, his pale naked figure would be immediately noticed.

“ _If only I weren’t still chained. I could hide under the stair_.” 

But as much as John wished, there was no changing his predicament.

The heavy metal door that led to the basement rattled on its hinges as a mighty thud reverberated against it and through the basement walls. Large particles of dust and debris could be heard raining down the wooden steps.

“ _They are coming for you_ ,” the treacherous voice of internal derision whispered in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Gulping against the lump that had formed in his throat, John brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The pounding at the door continued, and with every blow, the doctor could feel himself become more and more tense. Finally, with an almighty groan, the door gave way. Screeching against its mangled hinges, it was pushed open.

In a hail of artificial torchlight and dust, a lone figure descended into the basement. The tread of hard soles on the creaking steps was punctuated by the occasion tap of metal on wood.

Raising his eyes, John blinked against the light as he attempted to focus on the man coming towards him.

“Ah, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly, resting the tip of his umbrella on the hard concrete floor, “there you are.”

***

It was a typical English day, the sun casting its rays through the constant and dreary overhang of clouds. As grateful as John was to be out of that cellar, not even the familiarity of the weather could lift him back out of the mental fog that had settled over him. Consequently, despite sitting in his hospital bed, clean, clothed, and patched up, the doctor was all but despondent. 

He was faced with the bleak reality of starting over once again, and this time he’d have more than just a psychosomatic limp with which to contend. He could potentially ask his sister Harriet for her support, but he doubted she’d lift a finger on his behalf. And why would she? Who would want to help a brother who was incapable of helping himself?

Feeling the slight tinge of moisture prick at the corner of his eyes, John rubbed his faces between his hands. Everything synapse of his brain seemed to be at war with the others, and there was nothing he could do. He wanted to scream but knew it was pointless.

Lifting his head from his hands, John realized that none other than Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway of his hospital room, staring at him wordlessly.

“How long have you been there?” John asked, his tone utterly dreary.

“Long enough,” Mycroft answered, taking a step or two inside the room. “Are you quite alright, Dr Watson? Shall I fetch a member of the staff?”

“No,” John replied, absentminded twisting his hand in the bedclothes and letting his eyes drift away from the elder of the Holmes brothers.

“Unfortunate business, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunate?” John asked, vexed that Mycroft would use such a simple word to define such a horrid predicament. 

“Yes, unfortunate,” Mycroft clarified. “How else would one refer to a situation where Sherlock, a man with renowned intellect and deductive capabilities, has become embroiled with the likes of James Moriarty?”

“Add rapist to that list,” John muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

The growl of indignation punctuated every word as John replied, “I said add rapist to the list of your brother’s descriptive attributes.”

Glancing down at his shoes, Mycroft took a moment before responding.

“It is good to see some of your intransigence remains intact, Dr Watson. Though I, myself, am hesitant to refer to him by such a familial terminology. In fact, I find myself incapable of calling Sherlock a brother of mine. You see, Moriarty has…”

Mycroft trailed off, not finishing his sentence.

“Has what?” John prodded.

Deflecting the doctor’s question, Mycroft asked one of his own. 

“Did you happen to notice the markings on the inside of Sherlock’s arms while you were being held captive?”

It was not a question John had expected, and consequently, he did not have an answer readily available. Reflecting on his time spent in that basement, John had a difficult time recalling specific details. What they had done to him and how they had gone about doing it was as clear as day. However, a simple observational recollection of the physical condition of either of the men who raped him was beyond his abilities. 

Finally, John answered, “I don’t recall noticing any feature that was out of the ordinary. I was focused on their actions.”

“Then perhaps you’ll be surprised to learn Moriarty was exerting undue influence over Sherlock through the intravenous administration of heroin. When we found him, he had track marks upon track marks.”

Shaking his head, John dismissed the notion that Sherlock could be controlled through the use of narcotics.

“Sherlock has dabbled with drug use in the past. He is fully capable of not overdoing it.”

“Not overdoing it?” Mycroft parroted back with a sad twitch at the corners of his lips. “Dr Watson, I regret to inform you that Sherlock has well passed that point. He’s not too far down the hall as we speak, going through the most agonizing symptoms of withdrawal I have seen a man experience.”

“Sherlock’s here!” John gasped, his eyes growing wide as he retreated further into the confines of his bedding. 

“He’s under lock and key, I assure you,” Mycroft remarked. 

“Keep you assurances. I don’t want him anywhere near me, let alone in the same building!”

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft replied, attempting to pacify the other man, “there is no need for dramatics. Sherlock is barely cognizant of his own name. Even if he were here now, I doubt he would be able to recollect your name or even mine, for that matter.”

“You’re joking,” John remarked in disbelief.

“I am not. Sherlock’s mind has been compromised. Moriarty has…,” Mycroft paused, gulping precariously against the words he was about to utter. “James Moriarty has done significant damage. I am afraid it might be irreparable. And that is why I come to you, John, his most trusted friend.”

“We are no longer friends!” John interjected. “Friends don’t hold you down while—“

The doctor stopped abruptly. He did not want to give voice to the horrors he had endured.

“Like I said before,” Mycroft stated, “an unfortunate situation. One I would change if I could. But we both know that I am not in possession of a time machine and consequently, the events of this past month are out of my control. What is, however, in my control is how this situation is dealt. You, Dr Watson, will receive whatever medical attention and requisite recovery care you require. In exchange, all I ask is for your cooperation.”

“You are in the business of negotiating,” John replied, “but I am not. I don’t want anything from you, Mycroft.”

Nodding knowingly, Mycroft replied, “Perhaps I have grown accustomed to a certain way of diplomatic phrasing, but this is no negotiation. You shall have the treatment you need, full stop.”

Turning to leave, the elder Holmes was halfway out the door when John decided he’d prefer not to be left in the proverbial dark.

“You never said what you wanted from me,” John called out.

“Ah,” Mycroft replied, turning around and facing the doctor, “yes, well, by all appearances, you are in no condition to offer much information of value at the moment.”

Riled by Mycroft’s inexplicit criticism, John asked, “What is it you want to know?”

“I want to know the extent of Sherlock’s mental state these past weeks.”

“His mental state?”

“Yes, his mental state,” Mycroft clarified. “He clearly wasn’t in full control of his mental faculties but to what extent?”

“I’m not a psychologist.”

“I’m not asking you to be one. I just want to know… how was he?”

“Violent,” came John curt reply.

With a sigh, Mycroft rubbed his brow. In this brief display of emotion, John came to the realization that even though Sherlock had become the lowest of the low, the Mycroft was still the detective’s brother. This was not a government official standing before him but a man trying his best to find answers to impossible questions.

Feeling a twinge of sympathy, John added, “Sherlock never said a word to me. Moriarty eventually did but never Sherlock.”

“He said nothing?”

Nodding, John elaborated, “The first time, they were both completely silent. I don’t know why. Maybe it was a tactic to scare me, or maybe Moriarty just wanted to see how far Sherlock would go without having to be told what to do.”

“Moriarty would tell him what to do?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes. He’d direct the action occasionally when he wasn’t taunting me for being … so pathetic,” John admitted, swallowing down the shame that threatened to stop his words altogether.

“You are not pathetic, John,” Mycroft said after a moment. “You persevered in the most dire of circumstances.”

“But Moriarty—“

“James Moriarty is scum and he will never see the light of day again, of that I am certain.”

“But—“

“Don’t worry yourself over it, Doctor,” Mycroft said, decisively. “Now, I best be going. Work to complete and duties to uphold, I am sure you understand.”

Nodding in a wordless reply, John remained unmoved as he watched Mycroft Holmes stride out of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, I'm not entirely sure where this story is going as it has diverged from the other stories in this collection. I have a vague notion but nothing concrete.


End file.
